Chapter 3-The Clock Is Ticking

DOMINIC

By Friday morning, the city was already awake, buzzing below my office windows like a swarm of overcaffeinated bees. I’d been in the building since 5:45 AM.

Meetings. Reports. Another merger I didn’t want, but would still close because efficiency mattered more than desire.

I’d barely had time to breathe this week, let alone think.

And now, the main event is about to begin.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the minutes tick down on my watch.

9:40 AM.

She’d be here in twenty minutes.

Brooklyn Carson.

The name was unfamiliar until Mr. Hayes brought her to my attention. A desperate applicant with a solid mind and too many responsibilities. She wasn’t the obvious choice but that was the point. Obvious had never worked for me.

Neither had tradition.

A sharp knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts. My junior assistant stepped in with my second espresso of the morning, placing it beside a thick black folder stamped with the Blackwell family crest. I didn’t touch it.

“Everything’s been prepared,” she said.

“Thank you.”

As she left, my eyes drifted to the folder again. Inside were the terms, the backup plans, the legal cushioning Hades suggested just in case this went sideways. But it wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

Not when everything was on the line.

At thirty-four, I had more power than most CEOs twice my age. My company ran smoother than the family conglomerate ever did. My name opened doors. But my parents didn’t care about any of that.

They cared about legacy.

And apparently, legacy required a wife.

According to the revised trust, if I wasn’t legally married by the end of Q4, I wouldn’t be eligible to receive voting shares in Blackwell International. They’d pass to the next male heir….my younger brother, Marcus. The one with the ambition of a cocktail napkin.

Ridiculous? Completely. But in my family, legacy came with conditions.

Out of five siblings, I was the eldest. Two sisters, two brothers. Five carefully groomed names under the Blackwell empire. And our parents treated us like players in some high-stakes corporate chess match.

I wasn’t going to lose to Marcus because I refused to marry.

Which brought me here.

To a fake engagement. A contract marriage. A carefully managed illusion to keep the board—and my parents—off my back. For twelve months.

That’s all it needed to be.

Clean. Controlled. Strategic.

And if Brooklyn Carson signed the final agreement today, everything would be in motion by Monday.

I didn’t want love. I wanted leverage.

And she was about to walk through that door and give it to me.

They couldn’t know it was fake.

Not my parents. Not the board. Not a single goddamn soul.

The contract would hold up in court. The marriage license would be real. And on paper, Brooklyn Carson would be my lawful wife by Monday. The optics would be clean, the timeline airtight, and the lawyers satisfied.

Everything else? A performance.

My jaw tightened as my eyes moved toward the windows. Manhattan glittered beneath me, all glass and noise and ruthless ambition. The city rewarded control. Precision. Power.

Exactly what I’d built my life around.

But legacy,that was different. It wasn’t earned, it was inherited. And to inherit mine, I had to jump through hoops my father had designed back when men still smoked cigars in boardrooms and traded wives like stock options.

“Married by thirty-five, or the controlling shares pass to Marcus.”

My thirty-fifth birthday is in three weeks. The deadline was closing in like a noose.

Marcus had been circling since the will was updated,lurking at board meetings, offering “suggestions,” throwing his weight around like a prince-in-waiting. He was too charming for his own good and just reckless enough to ruin everything.

And if he got control of the family shares?

The empire would bleed out under his ego.

I couldn’t let that happen.

A buzz came from the glass console on my desk. Hayes.

9:54 a.m. She was early.

“Send her in,” I said, straightening the cuffs of my tailored black shirt.

A minute later, the office door opened.

And there she was.

Brooklyn Carson. In a jumper that looked like it’s from a thrift store. Guarded eyes. She looked nervous like she didn’t belong here and for some reason, that annoyed me more than it should have.

She stepped inside, blinking up at the view like she hadn’t seen this high above the city before. Her hands were clenched at her sides. She was bracing for something.

Good.

Let her brace.

“Miss Carson,” I said evenly, not moving from behind the desk. “Welcome back.”

Her gaze snapped to mine—and there it was. The fire. Even nervous, she had backbone. I could work with that.

“You’re the client?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t meek like most people’s around me. It had an edge.

“Dominic Blackwell,” I confirmed. “You signed an NDA. This meeting is to finalize the terms of our arrangement.”

“Marriage?,” she asked flatly.

I raised an eyebrow. “If you’re here, I assume you’re willing to hear the offer.”

She crossed her arms. “You had me sign a legal document before I even knew who you were.”

“You were vetted thoroughly. And compensated fairly. You’ll be more than taken care of.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Because that’s what this is about. You taking care of me.”

I stood, slow and deliberate, walking around the desk to face her.

“I don’t do sentiment, Miss Carson. I do results. This is a business deal. You pretend to be my wife for one year. In return, you receive more money than most people make in a decade. You’ll live in my penthouse. Attend a handful of events. Say the right things to the right people. And then you walk away.”

She blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“And your parents? Your siblings? They won’t know?”

“They believe I’m getting married to fulfill the stipulation. They don’t need to know how or why.”

“What happens if they find out?”

I met her eyes. “Then I lose everything.” And then I remembered…I can’t lose to Marcus

FLASHBACK~

Winter. A private meeting room in Blackwell Tower.

My father’s voice was low, measured.

“Dominic,” he began, leaning over the polished mahogany table across from me, “you’re thirty-four now. Your brothers are gaining influence, and your sisters have married well.”

He tapped a sheet of paper that squinted in the lamplight. The inheritance clause. The so-called “will,” although he hadn’t looked at me in years.

“If you’re not married by your thirty-fifth birthday, control of Blackwell Global transfers to Marcus. No questions asked. That’s non-negotiable.”

I flinched. Not because I didn’t know it was there but because every poser in the world would now call me desperate. Pathetic.

“My ship doesn’t run on marriage,” I replied. “It runs on performance.”

He straightened. “This isn’t about performance. It’s about optics.”

My brother Marcus sat across from us, leaning back with a smirk, crisp suit impeccable.

“So let me get this straight,” Marcus said, voice smooth. “Either Dom finds a trophy by next year, or I get to step up?”

“My words exactly,” Dad replied, barely hiding a satisfied grin.

“And if he doesn’t?” Marcus asked eagerly.

Father’s answer was clipped.

“He will need to explain to the board why he is chairman and not married even when it is tradition.”

“And if I don’t?”

He stood, shoving the folder toward me. “If you don’t comply? You lose control. This company is bigger than any one man.”

I stared at the folder. Legacy resting on my shoulders. My failure was not just my failure. It would be a public scandal.

My father’s hand on my shoulder was firm,commanding, unyielding.

“Do whatever it takes,” he said quietly.

PRESENTLY

She studied me, her brows furrowed. “Why me? Out of all the women in New York?”

I hesitated…then gave her the truth.

“Because you’re invisible.”

She flinched slightly, and I continued.

“You’re not in the press. You don’t party, don’t chase clout, don’t come from a family with their own agenda. No one will suspect this is fake because no one would ever expect a man like me to choose someone like you.”

“Wow,” she muttered. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”

“It’s not personal,” I said coldly. “It’s practical.”

Her jaw tightened. I could see the insult land, and part of me wondered if I’d pushed too far.

But then she took a breath, lifted her chin, and asked the one question I’d expected.

“How much?”

I handed her the contract. One year. Two million dollars. Paid monthly, plus bonuses for high-profile events and public appearances. Full legal protections. A separate clause for Elliot’s schooling and healthcare.

Her hand hesitated on the page at his name.

“You included my brother?”

“I don’t offer half-measures.”

Silence fell between us as she read, flipping through the document with more focus than I’d expected.

Then she looked up, eyes clear.

“I want a clause that lets me walk away if something happens to him. No penalties. No drama. If he needs me, I’m gone.”

That gave me pause.

She wasn’t greedy. She was protective.

Noted.

“Done,” I said.

“And I don’t do press interviews.”

“You’ll be coached. You won’t have to say anything more than necessary.”

“And I want a separate account like Mr Hayes said. No strings attached. No oversight.”

“Fine.”

We stared at each other for another beat. I could see the gears turning in her head. She was scared, yes but there was steel in her too. Maybe that’s why I’d chosen her.

Not just because she was invisible.

But because she wouldn’t break.

At least not easily.

Brooklyn inhaled slowly, then reached for the pen.

She signed.

And just like that, I had a wife.

Sort of.